Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  His hair was clipped close to his head, with a longer strip of hair that ran down the center of his head, much like the men’s mohawk style, except that he wasn’t bald and this man’s hair was exceptionally long in back.

  He looked incredibly dear, sexy and handsome, and something very warm stirred within her. This was the man who had saved her life three times now; the same and only man to whom she had ever given her complete devotion. And she wouldn’t have been quite human had she not wished to give him everything that was in her to give. But what?

  He demanded so little of her.

  At present, he appeared to be at his ease, which prompted her to think that perhaps they were in a safe place. On the chance that this might be so, she poked her head out through the entry flap and said, “Hello, sir.”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “Hello,” he responded warmly as he climbed the rest of the way to the summit where he had set up their camp.

  She said, “Mr. Thunder, do you know what has happened to my clothes?”

  “I washed them,” he replied. “They are drying.”

  “You washed them?”

  “Nyoh, that is so.”

  Sarah was taken aback. Having spent most of her life as a maid attending to others’ needs, she tried to recall if anyone had ever washed her clothes for her. If it were so, she couldn’t remember it.

  “I also mended your blouse.”

  This last had the effect of startling her. What sort of a man was this, who not only rescued a maid from certain death, but then mended the clothing that had been torn in the process?

  She said, “Thank you, sir, that was kind of you. But unnecessary. I could have taken care of it myself.”

  “True,” he replied, “but you were sleeping and I didn’t wish to disturb you. Your clothing, however, needed attention.”

  Remembering the fact that her captors hadn’t allowed her the decency to relieve herself privately, she was well aware of this fact. For a moment, embarrassment consumed her, realizing that he was probably understating his case.

  But she had a question, and she asked, “How did you accomplish mending my bodice? Did you bring needle and thread with you?”

  “Neh. However, I always carry sinew and a sharpened tooth for poking holes. It is a necessity, since one often needs to repair or make new moccasins when traveling.”

  An emotion, similar to gratitude, but all mixed up with respect and love, gripped her and was threatening to engulf her completely. For a moment, she felt overwhelmed. Indeed, tears filled her eyes, and a knot seemed to have developed in her throat. Immediately she was gripped by the realization of how kind this man was. Yes, he was a toughened man, he was a warrior and he had shown his ability against great odds. But she thought that this one trait outshone them all. He was kind.

  “Come here,” he said as he squatted in front of their entrance and pushed back the pine boughs that they were using as an entry flap. “I have something to show you.”

  “Is it safe, sir?”

  “It is.”

  “But I think I should stay here. You see, I have no clothes on.”

  He grinned. “Is that an invitation?”

  She looked down, then up and smiled back at him. “Perhaps, but only after I have bathed.”

  “Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her. “If you need a bath, I will take you where you may have one.”

  She hesitated only a moment longer before she reached forward and placed her hand in his. He helped her to crawl out of their temporary refuge, for she had hold of her only covering, this blanket.

  He asked, “Are you still wearing your moccasins?”

  She glanced down. It felt like she was, but . . . “Yes,” she said, “I believe I am.” She grinned. “During our travels, they have begun to feel as if they are a part of my feet. Will I need them?”

  “You will. The way is paved with sharp rocks. Come.”

  He led her down the steep, rocky bluff he had recently climbed, lending her his support when she slipped, which was often. Trees, deciduous and pine alike, had taken root on this otherwise slippery sloop, their branches and roots creating footfalls and handholds. In the distance, she could hear the babble of a fast moving stream. Interestingly, the sound was soothing.

  At last he brought her down to a ledge that looked out over a narrow valley that sat between two peaks. In the middle and at the bottom of these peaks ran the crystal-clear stream she’d been hearing, and on each side of it were lush areas of grasses, now brown, and trees, bushes and shrubs. Here were willow trees, birch, maple and oak trees, as well as berry bushes and red sumac guarding the water. The colors of brown and gold dominated the landscape, and though the trees were barren at this time of year, this stretch of land looked cared for, as though it were a park. Off in the distance, branches from the willow trees dipped in and out of the water lazily, as though they moved in time to the music of a cool wind.

  Above them, the sky was a deep blue, she noted, with white, fluffy clouds spotting the heavens. There was a hummingbird that seemed interested in their goings-on, and it flitted in and around them in its quest to find a sweet treat. Sarah sighed. It would appear that they were safe here.

  She said, “’Tis beautiful. Where are we?”

  “We are deep in the Adirondack Mountains.”

  “Deep in the Adirondack Mountains. The Adirondacks. Tell me, I had heard that these mountains are named for an Indian tribe. Is that true?”

  “It is,” he said, “and the word itself is from our language and means ‘eaters of bark.’ This is what we called these people when the Seneca first came to this country. Our elders tell us that they flavored their food with bark, thus their name.”

  “When your people first came here? Then your people are not originally from this place?”

  “Neh, no,” he replied. “The old stories tell us that long ago, perhaps as long as a thousand or more years in our past, we lived in the west, near what the people say was a big river. But my people left that place and came east.”

  “I didn’t know that. I had assumed you had always been here.”

  “Perhaps all people come from somewhere. Did you know that it is because of the Adirondacks that we of the Iroquois value freedom as much as we do?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to hear how that came about?”

  “Indeed.”

  He nodded, and placing his arm around her, he continued, “The story goes like this: The Adirondack people were very different from us, and we fought many battles with them. They were good warriors and they defeated us in battle after battle, and a dark period hung over our people. We were forced to pay the Adirondacks a tribute of skins and meat, as well as much of our crops. But my people remembered how it was to be free, and they longed to be unfettered again—as free as the eagle. And so they planned to escape. They schemed for years. When at last the people had a good store of food and were prepared, they stole away, sending out their canoes upon the river that the English call the St. Lawrence.”

  “Were they successful?”

  “Not at first, for the Adirondacks had much to lose if my people escaped, and so they came after them. My people were heavily burdened with women and children, and the Adirondack men were not. A great battle commenced and the Iroquois were almost wiped out. But the Creator heard the people’s cries, and took pity on them, for He believes that all His children should be free.

  “He sent a storm so forceful that day that the Adirondacks were almost wiped out. After that, they returned to their villages, never to bother us again. And so it is that we owe ourselves, our crops, our meat and food to no one. We will always be free.”

  “Yes,” she said, “may it always be so. If there is one idea that you have impressed upon me, it is that a people should be free.”

  “Nyoh, yes,” he said simply. “Now come, there is much privacy here. The creek is but a short distance from our camp and we are alone, I believe. You can bathe in the stream if
you wish and wash your wounds, for this is a special place. I’ll help you to the water and, if you will allow me, I’ll assist you to bathe.”

  “You would help me bathe?”

  He grinned at her, his look more than a little seductive. “I would. Your wounds need to be tended, and it’s best if I do that. And besides, I think you might like the manner in which I clean you.”

  Sarah shook her head, but she smiled back at him all the same. For a moment, if a moment only, the nightmare faded. If only it would go away for good.

  Nineteen

  “Why is it warm here, when it’s been so cold elsewhere?” she asked. “Aren’t we higher in the mountains? Should it not be cold?”

  White Thunder grinned as he helped her to negotiate, one slow step at a time, the grassy slope to the stream’s shoreline. He said, “I think the English call it ‘Indian summer.’ ”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she said, and he watched as she cast him a tender look. “I’m glad that it’s warm today,” she continued. “I have great need of a bath, but unlike you, my body does not crave an icy swim.”

  “Careful,” he said as she negotiated a steep passage. “Now, do not be deceived. The water is cold, but the air is warm. Here.” He stooped down to pick some goldenrod growing close to hand, and offered it to her. “This makes a good soap for hair and body.”

  “It does? Just the plant all by itself? I don’t have to do anything with it?”

  “You have never used this?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then it truly is best that I wash you.”

  Delicate color came quickly to her countenance and spread out slowly over her cheeks. Watching her, White Thunder found himself much fascinated. It wasn’t that he was intentionally trying to cause her embarrassment; these little details about her simply endeared her to him.

  He said, “We have been intimate for many weeks now. And still I embarrass you? ”

  “Yes.” She gazed away from him. “Don’t you see? There’s a difference, sir. I have always been fully dressed when we make love . . . except a few times recently, perhaps . . . But to undress, here in the light of day, fully upright and in complete view of you . . .”

  “You will come to love it, and I will, also,” he said quite honestly, “because I won’t give you a chance to be embarrassed. Besides, soon the evening will be spreading its dim shadows around us, and it will give you some protection from my leering.”

  Again, she smiled, but still she hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”

  He bent and kissed her long and hard, his lips and tongue seeking out the sweet recess of hers. While it wasn’t his intention to make love to her here and now, the caress caused such an instantaneous response from her that his body reacted in a way that promised much pleasure, were he to follow up on it.

  But he was not in such a mind. She needed time to recover. After her ordeal, she required peace, and he would see that she had it.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t tease her.

  As they kissed, he rocked the lower part of his body against hers and reached down to her buttocks to pull her in close. He even fought her for hold over the blanket. But she won, clutching it firmly to her bosom.

  Breaking off the kiss, she asked, “Why did we have to run so hard for so long last night?”

  “Bad spirits there,” he answered her. “Not a place to linger. It was also in Abenaki Territory, enemy of the Iroquois. In rescuing you, we made much noise, and the Abenaki will investigate it. When they do, they will see that a Seneca was there, and they will try to find me. But this place where we are now has long been a symbol of peace for all tribes. It is on the border of Abenaki Territory, but they do not control it. All tribes come here because here one can more easily talk to the Creator. This is His safe haven. But to arrive here safely, we had to hurry.”

  “Ah, now I understand,” she said. “And that meadow—why did we have to crawl across it?”

  “Abenaki were in those woods last night. Did you not see their signs?”

  “I little know what to look for, sir.”

  He nodded. “Their prints were on the trail and they were fresh, meaning that they were crawling in those woods. If we had crossed that place upright, we would have been easily seen, especially because there was a full moon.”

  “Oh.” She looked down, then up, her gaze settling on something over his shoulder. “Look there on those tree branches,” she said, pointing. “There are my clothes drying. Do you think they’re ready for me to wear yet?”

  “Neh, I have only just washed them. But come,” he said, “I still see fear in your eyes from your experience, and there is a sadness that I sense in your spirit. Let us bathe you in the fresh water here, and see if it might help to cleanse the body . . . and perhaps even more.” Bending to kiss her again, he loosened her grip on the blanket then let it fall to the ground. He stepped back to admire her breasts, her rounded buttocks and the splattering of hair between her legs. But it was obvious that she was uncomfortable under his scrutiny, and not wishing to stir up awkward emotions, he picked her up in his arms and stepped to the water.

  The shoreline was rocky, and long grasses grew up close to the bubbling water, which swirled over the rocks in its path. But there was nothing unusual in this; it was all as it should be, and he strode through the grass and waded out into the fast-moving stream.

  To him, the water was refreshing, but he feared that she would find it too cold. Luckily this rivulet wasn’t deep, and it would be possible to gradually acquaint her with its temperature. At this part of the stream, the water came only to mid-calf level, which allowed him to kneel, come down on his haunches, then position her over his lap.

  To say that he was not sexually excited by her and by holding her naked form in his arms would have been a terrible lie. Given a chance, he would have liked nothing better than to lock their bodies in the dance of love. It was simply that he knew that what she needed most at present was comfort.

  “Place your arms around my neck,” he said, “so that if you slip, you won’t be subjected to a cold dunking.”

  She did as he asked, and bending over her, he removed each of her moccasins, throwing them to shore. He washed her feet, massaging them in the process. She sighed and melted against him as though she might likely go to sleep.

  However, the feel of her skin, silky and smooth against his fingertips, was having an effect on him that was purely carnal. Indeed, touching her was as potent an aphrodisiac as if she had asked for his lovemaking, and despite the cold water, he found his body more than ready for her.

  But he reminded himself that it was not his intention to make love to her now. She was fearful. She was hurting. He could see it in her demeanor, could feel it in the slight jerks and shivers of her body.

  His arms tightened around her. If he could, he would keep her with him always.

  To keep her with him always. It was a potent thought, and as he hid his face in the silky tresses of her hair, he realized that it was time to come face to face with a truth: He loved her.

  He’d denied it to himself, telling himself that what he felt for her was nothing more than an intense admiration. Certainly, he had offered her marriage, especially when it seemed likely that they might have created a child. But love?

  It had come at a time when he hadn’t wanted to love anyone again, had even promised himself it would never happen. Love could hurt.

  But it could also be healing, he amended. Hadn’t she proved that to him? Wasn’t he a living result?

  Because his thoughts were profound, he swallowed hard, and kissed the side of her face and her cheeks. Then he rubbed his face against hers. In time, he said, “After we wash your body of its nightmare experience, I have something to give you that I think will help to heal your fear and grief.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  He reached into one of the bags that were draped over his shoulders, and pulled out a string of white-and-purple-beaded wampum.

&nbs
p; “Wampum?” she asked, and sat up, crossing her arms over her chest. She looked surprised, and amazingly, she seemed suddenly upset.

  He said, “Nyoh, yes, it is wampum.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. After all we’ve been through, I . . .”

  This was not the response he had expected, and he asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Sir, what is it you are saying to me? Is this meant to be an insult?”

  He frowned at her. “Neh, the opposite is true. I am showing you great respect.”

  “Then why have you suddenly decided to give me Indian money? Perhaps it’s not like this in your society, but in mine when a man gives a woman money after they’ve made love . . .”

  At last he understood her meaning, and he said, “Wampum is not money. Is that what you think it is?”

  “I do, sir.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “I fear some trader has stuck you with a great misunderstanding. Wampum is not used as money. It never has been. The English, with his gold and silver coins, has assigned a value to wampum that is in error.”

  “But I have heard that people will trade fortunes for it. So if not money, then what is it?”

  “Its use,” he replied, “is to cure the mind of the madness of grief, to open the throat so that a person may speak openly and at free will, and it is given to take away the heartache of losing someone close to you. Come here.” He sat forward to gather her into his arms and bring her back in close to him. “It is my desire to help ease the fear and grief that your experience has brought you. This is the correct use of wampum.”

  She sat silently for the space of a moment. “I understand, I think,” she said at last. “You were trying to help me, and I misunderstood. I deeply apologize, and I thank you for your consideration.”